As she twirls the rope of hair
in her nail tip, she’s not delicate.
It's round in shape, like the way
her missing brow furrows:
a charging shade of brown.
Dark, weighted, barring.

“Ms. Rita! Ms. Rita!”

She scares me still.
I sit down beside her and watch a twitch.
Something in the corner of her mouth.
Her lips: romp and pink.
As she moves them slowly,
girthed gape in the wake of a reprise;
she doesn't chirp or grin out loud,

She smacks!
She doesn't look happy.
She never does.
She calls my name.

So:

I tuck my skull between my knees
and burst brown the deep auburn.
As her eyes fix training on me.
She calls me to the front.

On the board.
White and then green.
Powder, powder.
She lends me the stage,
to which I bear only fright.
So I shrink.
I shrink.

Filibustered, hanged by a quick quip of the head,
I write this afoot an altar made (your own)
I scab my finger until the tip bleeds down the nail bed.
I plucker the wheat you’ve sown: a soiled painting where the wall is blue.

When I do it, not a thought  is to prevail,
You? You peddle and you complain, sick *******.
Your crosses cover my light. Vexed, I too wail.

Then I run, run, and run no time, no rest to find.
You mean it when you say it, you do. I’d screech!
And quip, quip, quip. A quick prayer sails out your hind.

Whilst I wrote not slacking once dreading the end of you,
The weight of your stare lingered.
To me: a blight disguised in brown behind dead eyes I made my own.
You are alone.

In this hate you give, my God.
I’d worship with haste
but no valour nor truth.